On Handlebars

You have (had) bricks, and you’re getting the mortar, the joining sticking concrete that works by taking like things, supplementary patterns, and joining them, and joining them, and joining them into a construction that isn’t red, so much as it’s white, so much as it’s a blue house now, because sadness is all that’s in the mailbox, and of course, mail isn’t delivered on Holidays, so there’s no one to take it out, or replace it. Oh, well.

What is the point of a game where no one understands the rules, where no one wins and no one loses, where all the things you wished happened to you happened to no one instead. Mind boggling. Another awful game, played by simply pointing out relationships. Oh. Maybe we’re good at this thing after all.

Suddenly we feel the sun. Suddenly we like the shade. Because it keeps us cool. Calm. And ready to collect. Man do you motherfucks owe us big bucks. Rent is retrogrammitical collected, physically if you can, spiritually if you cant. Let’s play.


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